Garden

Pushing behind my eyes like weeds,
Never the fruit, always the seeds.
Whispering at the back of my brain.
I’ve started thinking poems again.

The clouds are racing
Without knowing what they’re chasing.
I’ve been tearing off the shoots
Yet never damaging the roots.

For all the good intentions my garden’s overgrown,
I thought it would be pretty but now I’m digging on my own.
There’s mud up my nails and I’m standing in the rain.
I’m running against the wind again.

The clouds are racing
Without knowing what they’re chasing.
I’ve been tearing off the shoots
Yet never damaging the roots.

The sky is black
He’s not in my garden.
A heart attack
I still don’t harden.
The vine climbs high
But never reaches
To touch the sky
And somehow teaches
Me some things will never be;
An infertile flower
Cannot seed a tree.

The clouds are racing
Without knowing what they’re chasing.
I’ve been tearing off the shoots
Yet never damaging the roots.